


Even On Cold Days

by citron_presse



Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:20:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citron_presse/pseuds/citron_presse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>If they knew what you felt, who you are, maybe Casey wouldn’t keep walking away from you; maybe Heather would say something more than awkward politeness that freezes you out even worse than open hostility.</em>
</p><p>Coda to episode 1.19.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even On Cold Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waltzmatildah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltzmatildah/gifts).



> For the prompt, _CF | Kelly | I've a memory of a little boy who you'd like to meet, he could do anything, I've been missing him..._

After shift, you drive out to the lake. Sit in your car and watch the water.

It feels peaceful, until you realize your hands are shaking and that, honestly, you don’t know the meaning of the word. Temporarily numb is a more accurate description, and even this only lasted -- you glance at your watch -- around fifteen minutes.

(It was so much easier with the pills.)

You used to come out here with your dad. When you were little, he taught you to skim flat stones across the water’s surface. Later, after he left for (ex-) wife number two, and only saw you on _his_ weekends (that is, when he didn’t cancel), you practiced between visits, with Andy, until you could do it really well. You think you wanted him to be proud of you but, in the end, the activity just served as displacement for all the things you couldn’t say. Because you knew by instinct, even back then, that he wouldn’t really listen, wouldn’t really care.

There were two things your dad cared about: women and squad. Apparently you’re a chip off the old block. The thought causes actual physical pain in the pit of your stomach, followed by nausea, and the grating, saddening memory that once, a long time ago, your only ambition was to be exactly like your dad.

Jesus.

You relive the shift, see yourself blustering around the firehouse, a mirror image of Benny during his last visit, blindly claiming the moral high ground, accusing Casey of sleeping with Heather, betrayal, God knows what now, because the words just came out uncontrolled.

You almost wish you could sit him down and say what you really mean.

_I miss Andy. So badly, it kills me every shift, every day._

_I keep blaming you for his death, so I don’t have to keep blaming myself. Except it doesn’t help. Nothing helps._

And then the pleas of a seven year old kid, whose world went from skimming stones and playing catch to an empty seat at the head of the breakfast table and a distance he could never quite bridge, from laughter in the kitchen to silence.

_I’m sorry. I promise I won’t do it again. Please don’t hate me._

If they knew what you felt, who you are, maybe Casey wouldn’t keep walking away from you; maybe Heather would say something more than awkward politeness that freezes you out even worse than open hostility.

_I’m lonely, and it hurts like hell, and I need a friend._

Except you’re not seven anymore, you can’t breach your own defenses, and all you can show them is (as Renee put it, shot through with resentment that cut you) _the great Kelly Severide_ , the squad lieutenant who’s never wrong, who’s doing just fine.

You wish someone could see through the act, make the first move. You’re so screwed up now, it might even be enough.


End file.
